


This Is Not A Drill

by Princess_Cocoa



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Crash Landing, Gen, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:35:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Cocoa/pseuds/Princess_Cocoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas wishes, suddenly, that he truly was back in Ipswich. <i>That</i> incredible embarrassment would be infinitely more preferable to the current feeling of crushing fear coursing through him. </p><p><a href="http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=12953569#cmt12953569">Prompt</a> fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Not A Drill

**Author's Note:**

> **I've been hit with a major case of writer's block, so to fill my time I'm transferring some of my fics from all around. The first is a prompt fill for this prompt: _Douglas pulls Martin out of a smoke-filled fuselage again, only this time it's not because Martin got dizzy and it's not a mock-up fuselage._ **
> 
> **Enjoy :)**

The first thing he’s aware of is the fact that he seems to have missed something vitally important, if the smell of smoke and the sound of groaning metal is anything to go by. It takes awhile to come to his senses properly, probably longer than he has to spare, really, as the scents and sounds slowly permeate his mind. He wants to shake his head of the cotton that’s taken refuge there, but he feels as if that would be a bad decision. He feels groggy, a specific type of exhaustion running his mind that he hasn’t felt since his daughter was a screaming baby pulling him from slumber every night.   
  
He waits to open his eyes, instead trying to think about where he could possibly be. Names of disreputable bars and repugnant hotels run through his head but he dismisses them quickly, mostly because his body is quickly making new pains known - pains that not even a drunken bar fight could elicit, and he would know.   
  
Then suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, he  _knows_. Images of a slanted nosedive come into his mind, yells of mayday and the determined face of his fellow pilot as Douglas tried to right them for a very rocky desert landing.   
  
His eyes snap open, watering as the bright light of the sun shines in through the broken window that he’s staring at. His head is turned slightly to the right, leaving him looking through the small window that constitutes the furthermost end of the windscreen. He’s buckled securely into his seat, a fact he’s grateful for once he sees the ground, or - more specifically - the lack of it. The sand below his side of the plane is hardly visible. Their resting angle is an awkward one, the plane’s left side and nose buried in the ground, leaving Douglas practically floating above his copilot.   
  
“Martin?”  
  
Douglas groans as soon as the name falls from his lips. Absolutely  _everything_  hurts, even to the point where the reverberation of his scratchy voice makes his headache increase exponentially. As the pounding of his head recedes slightly, however, he realizes quickly that there was no response. Martin’s side experienced the worst of the crash, he’s sure, as they were listing pretty heavily to the left as they fell. There’s no doubt that Martin is unconscious too, and now Douglas has to get him up.  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut in preparation and lifts his head from its awkward position, slowly turning it to find his captain. The movement sends twinges of distant pain all throughout his person, and though his body hurts, he feels at first relieved that he doesn’t seem to be too injured. A feeling immediately overshadowed by fear when he sees the beginnings of a fire licking its way up the crushed nose of the plane from the outside.  
  
“That explains the smoke,” he mutters, not allowing panic to override his demeanor. Not yet, at least.   
  
He blinks hard, quickly checking himself over for any wounds he’s not able to feel, glad when none become apparent. “Alright Martin, I know you like to sleep but if a senior citizen such as myself can get up before you in a situation such as this…”  
  
He trails off as he finally looks all the way over, seeing his captain huddled in his seat, facing away from Douglas. He looks incredibly small where he lies, his right hand sitting limply against the armrest as blood drips from his fingertips.   
  
“Martin!” Douglas calls, hoping the boy is merely unconscious. When Martin doesn’t so much as twitch, Douglas works hurriedly at his seat belt.  
  
A cough comes through the other side of the doorway, and then a shout. “Douglas! Martin!”  
  
Douglas grips the chair tightly as the seat belt comes undone, and he slowly lowers himself down to just behind Martin’s seat. He curses when he lands on his feet, realizing that his right ankle is screwed up somehow. Hopefully it's not broken, but there's not telling at this point. “Carolyn? Wonderful. Are you alright?” As soon as he says it, he realizes it’s a ridiculous question, but he finds himself to be rather distracted by Martin’s shallow breathing. He's glad that his friend's alive at least, but can't risk shaking the man, afraid of unseen wounds.  
  
“Arthur and the client, as well as myself are all alive, at least, injuries nonwithstanding. We’ve got a fire back here. Aircraft left side.”  
  
“Bloody wonderful,” Douglas grumbles, slowly unfolding his copilot from his position. He pulls his own shirt up as smoke fills the area, the broken windows doing nothing to combat the result of both surrounding fires.   
  
The door rattles behind him and Carolyn’s voice comes through. “This door isn’t budging. Douglas, we have to go.”  
  
“I realize Carolyn. The axe is up here, however; there's nothing for you to do at this point. I’ll get us out, I promise. Now get out of here.”  
  
Carolyn coughs again, yelling a quick, “I’m giving all your pay to Martin if you break this promise,” before he hears her rush off.   
  
Douglas glances back at the boy lying limply in his seat. He sees blood from a head wound and a broken arm but nothing else too severe, at least not at this point. Douglas sighs, instantly regretting it when he inhales some of the heavy smoke, his eyes watering following the coughing fit. If he doesn’t hurry, they’re going to die of asphyxiation.  
  
He pulls off his uniform jacket, tearing a strip from the thick fabric with his teeth and wrapping it around his face. Next, he covers the currently shivering Martin with what remains before he reaches blindly for the axe. There’s not much room to swing, but the door is weak enough already that it doesn’t take much effort from Douglas.   
  
As soon as the door falls open, the heat from the second fire hits him full force, and he can tell they don’t have much time left. The entire plane (or what remains of it) is completely filled with a dark, choking smoke and Douglas is violently reminded of their failed course in Ipswich. He finds himself wishing they were merely back there, rather than here in this dire situation - one pilot nearly choking on smoke and the other one bloody and unconscious.  
  
“Well at least I have some experience in these matters now,” Douglas mutters to himself. “As pathetic as that sounds.”  
  
He spins around, gripping Martin with as much care as possible and tucking the man tightly against his chest. Douglas doesn’t want to risk covering his nose and mouth with anything while he’s unconscious, so he’s forced to hope that Martin doesn’t breathe in too much of the smoke as they try to escape. Just in case, though, he turns Martin’s head as far towards his own chest as it will go.  
  
The smoke is filling his eyes with tears, adding to his inability to see. His vision blurs, the smoke continuing to fill the fuselage, blocking his sight to the point of near-blindness. At this point, he only has his extensive knowledge of the plane to go off of when he leaves the cockpit. He keeps his shoulder against the wall as he goes, walking as quickly as he can without jostling Martin too much and hoping they can make it to safety without too much hassle.   
  
The door, however, proves very difficult to find, and he’s almost worried that he’s missed it or gotten turned around somehow when he feels a cool breeze hit his face. Despite being in the desert, the air outside is noticeably cooler than the fuselage he’s attempting to exit and he steps out onto the stairway with a gasp of relief.   
  
Carolyn and Arthur call their names from several yards away, and Douglas indicates that they should keep moving back just in case the fire gets too out of hand. He tries to take in their wounds as he rushes towards them, but is left at a loss, and he quickly shifts his focus back to the man in his arms.   
  
When he reaches them, he lowers himself to his knees carefully, setting Martin on Arthur’s spread jacket. He pulls the fabric from around his face, coughing one final time as his gaze slides over Martin. Arthur is calling his name frantically, and Douglas pushes the man back as he tries to get a look at the worst wounds. The captain refuses to wake up, continuing to bleed onto the jacket below him without so much as a twitch.  
  
Douglas binds the wounds he can see, blinking hard when a wave of dizziness overcomes him. He tamps it down, though, and continues inspecting Martin. He cringes at the broken arm, unsure what to do with it.   
  
“I think I see the emergency crews!”  
  
Douglas starts, having completely forgotten about the client. Even now he can’t think of the woman’s name, worry for Martin overcoming any other thought. He looks up, following her gaze towards the horizon and breathing a sigh of relief when a helicopter comes into view. Arthur jumps up, waving his arms back and forth as if they would somehow miss the flaming wreckage of their plane on the ground.   
  
Closing his eyes, Douglas leans back on his heels, hissing when he puts weight on his ankle. Up to this point, he’d forgotten about all of his injuries in the rush to get Martin out of the plane.   
  
He falls back, then, sitting solidly on the hot desert sand as his eyes follow the progress of the helicopter. Beside him, Carolyn shifts, allowing herself to relax minutely with the arrival of the paramedics.  
  
Arthur runs back to them when the helicopter lands, glancing uncertainly at Martin before he looks back at Douglas. “Skip’s gonna be ok, right?”  
  
“Of course,” Carolyn murmurs, though it doesn’t sound as full of conviction as Arthur probably hoped.   
  
Arthur pauses, looking between the two of them for any other reassurances before shaking his head. “He’ll be fine,” he says, obviously trying to comfort himself as his hands pick at his torn shirt. “Just fine. Skip’s always fine…” Arthur keeps talking to himself, refusing to look at Martin as the paramedics slide down beside him, talking loudly back and forth, listing off one medical term after another.   
  
Douglas, for his part, doesn’t move, staring directly at his captain as the medics give him oxygen. Vaguely, he hears another one of them call his name, but he ignores it. He watches the people in front of him, each working frantically to find everything that's wrong with his captain.   
  
He closes his eyes, breathing out a shaky sigh. At this point he only has hope. And, as the paramedics transfer Martin to a stretcher and another grabs his arm, making him stand and follow, he hopes desperately that Arthur is right.

**Author's Note:**

> **As I wrote on the meme, I may or may not write an epilogue for this, but for now this is where it ends (writer's block and all). I hope you liked this little bit of angst all the same~.**


End file.
